


R.E.M.

by leucocrystal



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Death, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Introspection, Memories, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Male Character, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-02
Updated: 2006-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leucocrystal/pseuds/leucocrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Start with the gunshot on the rooftop, and work your way to the next evening.  Logan experiences some heavy dreams, chronicling his life and his relationship with Veronica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R.E.M.

**_BANG._ **

The gunshot is so loud, for a second you actually think something exploded.

You scramble to your feet, and the first thing you see is Veronica, shaking all over and pointing the gun directly at Beaver.

Her accusations cut through the tense air like a knife, and you can hardly believe what she’s saying.  Your head is swimming, and it’s the most disoriented you’ve felt in a long time.  It’s more of a shock than the electricity to your side from just moments before, when you realize she really does want to kill him.

She’s breaking apart, losing bit after bit of her resolve and her control right in front of you.  What can you say?  What can you do to make it better?

Nothing.

It’s a choking feeling; you’re the only one there for her to reach out to, but you can’t do anything to help.  You have to stop her -- that’s the only thought that crosses your mind.  You’re such a dangerous combination of incredibly angry and incredibly shocked right now, you could almost kill Beaver yourself.  It’s not just Veronica you have to talk out of doing it.

If she’ll just put the gun down, maybe you can salvage all those pieces of her that are scattered across the rooftop.

_"Veronica, don’t."_

  
  _fast forward to just after Cassidy..._     


It’s not until the car alarm starts going off several stories below that everything hits you.

Your knees suddenly feel very weak.  You want to turn around and see Veronica; really _see_ her, to make sure she didn’t just disappear over the side of the rooftop too, but you can’t seem to get your legs to work.  It turns out you don’t have to move after all, because Veronica comes to you instead.

She’s clinging to you tighter than you can ever remember her doing, and you don’t care anymore if you’re overprotective; she always calls you when she needs you, and you always come.

You’re holding her tightly too, and running your fingers through her hair, and trying to steady yourself.  It’s difficult when you’re both leaning on each other, and neither of you is feeling steady at all.

_"Give me the gun, Veronica."_

You keep hearing your own words echoing through your mind, almost to the point you feel like shaking your head until it shuts the hell up.

After taking care of Mac, Veronica is surprisingly stable.  She’s almost herself again -- when she has a purpose, she can focus on something else.

When you finally leave the hotel, you don’t know if she still needs you.  She’s walking very stiffly, a few feet ahead of you, out into the parking lot.  She’s clenching and unclenching her fists sporadically, and you wonder vaguely whether punching you might make her feel a bit better.

You’re just starting to speculate that there must be someone you could call who can actually _do_ something for her when she stops short.  Lost in thought, and your mind half-fried, you almost walk right into her.

"Could you give me a ride?"  Her voice is raspy and clipped.

You’re surprised she even thought she needed to ask.  You’re just about to say, "Of course," when her knees buckle.  You don’t quite catch her in time; you both end up on your knees on the asphalt.  You do manage to get your arms around her though, and you quietly say, "I’ll take you home."

 

  
  _fast forward through the police station and the long, quiet drive._     


You’re rubbing little circles against the small of her back, because you honestly can’t think of anything else to do.  There’s nothing you can do but stay in physical contact somehow; back at the station, when they were questioning her, she practically bolted you to her side.

But maybe that need is gone now; it could easily have slipped into the giant, yawning void that has materialized in her life tonight.  It might have, because she disentangles herself from your arms, and wanders slowly through the door.

You can’t even imagine what she’s feeling right now, standing trembling like a leaf in the middle of the apartment.  She’s surrounded by everything _Keith-and-Veronica_ , _Daddy-and-daughter_ , and she looks so delicate, you don’t want to say anything.  Like sound waves in the air will shatter whatever fine threads of resolve are keeping her from crumbling beneath the weight of it all.

You’re trying to think straight and come up with something, anything to do to fix this, even though it’s completely futile, and of course nothing comes to you.  The inside of your head is so frantic and buzzed on adrenaline you feel like jumping out of your skin when she actually speaks.

"There’s… I should… on the… messages,” she says in a hollow voice, gesturing vacantly toward the answering machine.  You can’t believe she’s worrying about phone messages.  This all-business attitude is her defense mechanism, you know full well.  What you don’t know is what the hell to do.

"It’s not important right now," you finally manage to say, because it really, really isn’t.  What’s important right now is to get her to do something -- preferably sleep -- that might make her feel less like porcelain.  Cold and fragile and empty.

"You should get some rest," you say.  _You should, we should, I should._   Everything you hear come out of your mouth makes you sound like a moron.  You’ve never felt so stupid in your life.

She looks over at you, and you realize she understands.  She’s the one grieving, and you don’t deserve any thought on her part, but she understands.  You’re _trying_.

She crosses back over to you in just a few steps, and holds you the tightest she has all night.  She squeezes your shoulders like she’ll never let go.  The littlest, most disgusting, selfish part of your brain doesn’t ever want her to.  You could kick the shit out of yourself for it.

"It’s okay."  It takes you a few seconds to realize she was the one who said it, and not you.  You hadn’t even noticed your face was wet.

You’re not perfect, and you don’t know what to do.  She’s holding you close and letting you off the hook.  Maybe just your being here is enough, but you wish you could do so much more.

You’re both crying now, and you bury your face in her hair, and you don’t know what to do.

 

_"Give me the gun."_

She cries into your shirt for a long time.

You end up on the couch, with her slumped against your side, because she hasn’t exhausted herself yet.  You’re pretty sure that’s the only way she’s going to willingly fall asleep.

You look down, and you feel a brief flash of anger when you see the small dots of blood soaking through her shirt, from the struggle on the roof.

You’re staring at the dark red, watching it turn black, and your eyes start to slide out of focus.

 

  
  _rewind to years and years ago, in the summertime._     


Your nose is bleeding like crazy, and all you can think is you want to see your mother.

You walk to her bedroom door, but you're careful not to make any noise.  You’re torn between wanting her help, and not wanting to see the look she gets on her face when days turn out like this.

Her hair was a little longer, then.  She’s wearing one of her favorite red shirts, reading on the bed, surrounded by pillows.  Soft sunlight is coming in from behind her, and you don’t want to be the one to make the smile leave her face.  You’re getting really tired of doing that.

You’re still hovering in the doorway, and a few drops of blood fall to the pristine carpet.

 

  
  _fast forward to the present._     


You jump suddenly and take a sharp breath, startling Veronica.

"Logan?"

You have no idea why you just thought of that.  Veronica can tell something is wrong; you wish she wouldn’t look at you like she is now.  All tense and worried.

You force your mother’s face to the very back of your mind again.

"It’s nothing," you say, blinking back the prickling feeling you’re getting at the corners of your eyes.  She stares at you a little harder, and you know she can tell you’re lying.

 

_"You are not a killer, Veronica."_

You cup her cheek in your hand, and she leans against your palm and closes her eyes.  The skin under your fingertips is flushed and swollen with tears.

You want so much to make it better.  You want to relax all the tightness you feel in her muscles; kiss away the tears still clinging to her eyelashes.

For the first time in years, you wish you’d had a more normal childhood.  Someone who didn’t grow up alone would know what to do.  You’re no good at helping anyone.

And then it hits you like a punch in the gut; memories you’ve been suppressing for ages spill into your mind out of nowhere.

 

  
  _rewind to just a few years ago, sitting in your living room._     


_"I’m so sorry, honey."_

Your mother used to say that a lot.  That never made anything better.  She’d be so soaked in alcohol by then, she’d never know the difference, anyway.

But then she’d pull you close, and hold your head in her hands, and you’d calm down again.  The stinging in your skin would fade, just a little.  Sometimes, you’d even stop shaking.

She’d put her fingers to your temples and massage your skin and eventually it would hurt a little less.

 

  
  _fast forward to Veronica trembling next to you on the couch._     


You’ve always been so good at bottling everything up until you’re ready to burst.

You can’t let Veronica do that, because you’re a textbook example of how much that fucks someone up in the head.

 

_"Give me the gun."_

So you do the one and only thing you know to.  The one and only thing anyone ever did for you.

You ease her head down to your chest, hand firm against the nape of her neck.  She buries her face into your skin, right where the muscle joins the collarbone, and turns in your lap to curl up against you.

 

_Your fingers graze the back of her hand, and she lowers her arms with a choking sob that cuts right through you._

You press your fingers to her temples and try to ease the pain away, and it’s the only thing you know to do.

By the time she relaxes, she’s fisted her fingers so tightly into your shirt, she doesn’t even let go when she finally falls asleep.

 

_You pull her close, wrap her up into you, and hope it’s enough._

You tell her that you’re sorry, and it’s the only thing you can do.

 

  
  _fast forward a few hours more._     


You startle yourself awake when your chin hits your chest.  You hadn’t even realized you were nodding off until now.

You don’t want to get up.  You don’t want to wake her up and remind her that besides you, the apartment is empty.

That it’s going to stay empty.

Backup nudges your knee, and you realize your right arm is completely asleep where it’s been wedged under her shoulders.  If you don’t get off the couch soon, you won’t have enough energy left to move at all, and you can’t let her sleep like this all night.

You nudge her shoulders up, your right arm still tingling in an obnoxious way, and lift her legs by the knee with your left, and even as a dead weight, she’s smaller and lighter than you thought she’d be.

It’s tricky and even a bit gymnastic, trying to get her under the covers of her bed when she still has a death grip on your shirt.  You finally get her settled down on the sheets, and you’re slowly easing her fingers apart when her eyes flutter open.

"I--" you start, but she pulls you down and hugs you tightly before you can get the rest of the sentence out.  She actually squeezes most of the air out of your lungs, and it takes you a while to choke out a soft, "--didn’t mean to wake you," into her hair.

From where her face is buried in your shoulder, the fabric of your shirt slowly dampening, you barely hear her say, "…It’s okay."

You don’t know if she really wants you here.  But she does want _someone_ here, and you won’t let her wake up alone.

You stretch out on the couch and try to slow your brain down.  You don’t realize how much you’re fidgeting until your foot hits the table at the other end of the couch.

You feel too much of everything.  Too tall, too lanky.  Too tired.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to try and stop the pounding in your head.

 

When Lilly is around, you’re never even sure if you like Veronica or not.

The first impression you had of Veronica Mars was cleats, green knee socks and long legs.  You were tying your shoes in the driveway when Lilly sauntered over with Veronica tagging along; you looked up, and that’s the first thing you saw.

You’ve known her for a while now, and you know she has a pretty smile, and bright blue eyes that penetrate just a little too deep.  You get a ridiculous sensation, every now and then, like she can see things no one else can.

Like she can see through all those invisible barriers you’ve been working so hard to keep up around you.

But then she’ll turn around and spend twenty minutes gossiping with Lilly about some jock in their gym class, and she’s right back to not knowing you at all.

You wish she’d pick one way to be, so you could just make your damn mind up about her.

She’s too many contradictions.  Maybe that’s the problem.  She’s not supposed to warrant this much thought.

She’s not quite naïve enough to be frustrating, not quite sweet enough to be annoying, not quite flighty enough to be ignored, and not at all mean enough to be bitchy.

She doesn’t have Lilly’s mood swings, or Lilly’s pouting lips, or the swing in Lilly’s hips, or Lilly’s self-proclaimed "fabulousness."  She shadows Lilly more than she should, and if you had to pick one thing you hate about her, it would be that.

You want to know who Veronica Mars really is.

You’re still not even sure why you care.

 

  
  _fast forward to one day, freshman year._     


You’re ambling through the halls at school with Lilly, and you turn a corner and walk smack into Veronica.

_Every time you hurt Veronica Mars, you’re back to square one again._

You reach down to help her up and your big hand pretty much swallows hers.  She laughs a little halfheartedly and says she’s fine, and Lilly elbows you in the chest so hard she knocks half the air out of you.

"Hey, now, don’t be messing with my woman," Lilly says in her taunting little _sotto_ voice, and Veronica grimaces at her like she’s mentally ill, but laughs anyway.

Those clear blue eyes flick back upward to yours, and startle you into a sudden recognition.

It’s her laugh.  It strikes you as so… _not_ Lilly, and everything starts to seem very funny for no good reason.  Lilly is already giggling in the way she almost never stops doing, and Veronica is still laughing, and then you’re laughing against your better judgment, and none of you know when to stop.

You feel too tall and too lanky and too stupid all at once and it’s disconcerting to say the least.

Your eyes flutter open slightly.

It’s still pitch black outside.

Lilly dies on a Friday.

You hardly remember that day.  Something about a car wash; Lilly was wearing a lot of green.  Veronica was laughing, and you left a shot glass in Lilly’s car.  It was a Friday, and that’s all.

Your whole life, you’ve been drawn to water.  It’s almost as if the iron in your blood reacts magnetically to something just beneath the surface.

You remember when you found out about Lilly, you broke something in the kitchen, but you can’t recall what it was.  For the first time in your memory, you spend a night anywhere but near the pool.

 

  
  _fast forward six blurry, painful weeks._     


Nothing you learned in school during those first months really stuck, but you remember the crime scene video leaked onto the Internet.

After a full day of catching people all over the school, eyes glued to screens, watching the blood pool around Lilly’s halo of blonde hair, you snap again.

You break something else, but it’s not something from your kitchen.

 

You watch those blue eyes pool with tears, and you tell yourself not to feel sorry.  You tell yourself you never really knew her; you didn’t even know if you liked her.

She runs out of the classroom, and you’re back to square one.

You roll over on the couch, and squeeze your eyes shut tighter.

You listen for a moment, but you don’t hear anything from down the hallway.

You rub your eyelids roughly, but you can’t feel anything but exhausted.

_"…Isn’t it better?"_

It’s not supposed to be better.

Life is not supposed to be better without Lilly.  Life used to fucking _revolve_ around Lilly; she pretty much insisted upon it.

Without Lilly, you have reasons to feel things again that you can’t escape anymore.  Without Lilly, you can’t ignore everything that’s wrong with your life.

Lilly was distraction embodied.  Lilly made it easier.  She made it easy to forget how little you mattered to everyone.  Lilly made it easy to forget the sting of leather on your skin after you pissed your father off; the scent of vodka on your mother’s clothes when she’d decide to actually take care of you.

When Lilly was around, you didn’t feel as much as you could have.

You knew she didn’t care that much about you; she really just kept you around as another accessory -- something to play with when she got bored.  You got used to blocking things out.  You got used to ignoring how much you really cared about Lilly.  It’s not like you didn’t know it was a bad idea to get so attached to someone who was determined to live vicariously through other guys.

But when Lilly snapped her fingers, you came crawling back anyway.  Lilly was the easy way out.

It was easy.

 

Without Lilly, it’s not hard to piss you off.  You’re all extremes again.

You’re bashing Veronica’s car headlights in with a fucking crowbar.  You’re smirking at her and taunting her and you _still_ don’t even know whether you like her or not.

You only know one thing.  Veronica is not the easy way out.

  


When Lilly was around, Veronica parroted her to an almost unhealthy degree.  She clung to Duncan and did all the things a high school girl was supposed to do.  She wore white and pastel flowers and didn’t get riled up hardly ever.

Without Lilly, she snarks back and forth with you on a regular basis, and you can’t tell whether she hates you or revels in it.  Either way, she knows just which places to kick you to bring out your sarcasm reflex.  If Lilly were around, she wouldn’t even open her mouth most of the time, but without her it almost feels like verbal foreplay, and it really shouldn’t.

Without Lilly, Veronica has a backbone.  Without Lilly, Veronica doesn’t give a shit what anyone says about her; to her face, or behind her back.  Without Lilly, she sets her pit bull on people who make the mistake of pissing her off; she carries a taser and uses it.  She is slippery and resourceful and has definite sleuth prowess.  People bite her; she bites back three times as hard.

Without Lilly, Veronica is a tough as nails badass who doesn’t take your crap anymore.  You push all her buttons; she plants a bong in your locker.  You smash the hell out of her car, and a biker gang has her back.

It’s not easy at all.

 

  
_"You are_ strapless _red satin!"_  


Without Lilly, Veronica is higher skirts and shorter hair and more neck and skin and snugger shirts and leather boots and sarcastic quips.  Without Lilly, Veronica can get your attention and hold it.

Without Lilly, Veronica is distracting all on her own.

 

  
  _fast forward to the memorial fountain._     


When the video finally ends, Jake is crying, and Duncan is laughing, and you turn your head and Veronica is struggling with both.  She smiles at you.  You surprise yourself a little when you smile back.

It feels good.

It’s almost as if Lilly is really there, and the pieces got glued back together.  You suddenly realize how fitting the song choice was.

Lilly was the one who held you all together.  You all know it.

Veronica is still smiling and her eyes are shining at you across the crowd of people between you.

For the first time in a long time, you actually feel good about something.  The smile reaches your eyes, and it feels good.

You hate this kind of sleep.

It’s not even sleep; it’s a fitful, nightmarish collection of sights and sounds popping in and out of focus in your mind.

You blink five, six, seven times, but your eyelids are still too heavy.

Trina stalks off -- or rather, makes her grand exit -- in that obnoxious, haughty, overdramatic way she does _everything,_ and you feel like you’re going to explode.  Like you’re one of those stupid little science project volcanoes, bubbling over with vinegar and baking soda, or just a shitload of pressure.  You could punch a hole through the wall, but that concierge doesn’t need another reason to kick you out.  You could do a lot of equally destructive things, but they won’t make your father any less of an asshole; they won’t make your sister any less of a bitch.

They won’t bring your mother back.

You’re walking back over to the couches, and it feels like you’re moving in slow motion.  Or like you’re under water.  Thick and heavy and sluggish.  You’re starting to feel like collapsing so far into the cushions of one of those couches; just dissolving into the fabric until you can’t feel anything anymore.  Things don’t have to make sense when you’re a couch.

You feel something warm on your arm, and it takes a few seconds to register that Veronica’s holding on to you.  She’s pulling you aside, probably so you can sit down, and she’s like a little black-clad buoy, keeping you from sinking into the floor.

And all of a sudden, the pressure snaps.

It’s almost audible.  Like a loud crack through the stuffy, elevator music-filled air.

Out of nowhere, you stop short right in the middle of the lobby, and you’re crying, and it’s been a while since you’ve really _cried._   You’ve almost forgotten what a horrible combination of feeling it is -- like suffocating, drowning and choking at once; how much everything around you shimmers and slides in and out of focus through the tears right before they spill over.

You're feeling things again, and this time it has nothing to do with Veronica.

This time, it’s you who’s hurting.  And really, you did this to yourself, didn’t you?

_Free at last._

It was just a damn lighter.

 _Veronica._   Your brain is processing things very slowly.  _Veronica is here._   You’re mentally grappling with wanting her here so at least _someone_ is here, and not wanting her to see you like this.

_Veronica is here._

 

Veronica.  She has her arms around you and you are collapsing, but this has nothing to do with fabric or couches or hotel lobbies.  She has no reason to be nice to you at all; not really.  But she’s kneeling down to the floor, right in the middle of the goddamn Sunset Regent, and letting you cry like she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

Then it clicks, like a switch coming on: this is Veronica fucking Mars, and she doesn’t give a shit about what anyone says.

She’s not just on her knees next to you -- she’s got her arms looped under your neck and around your shoulders; she’s running her little fingers up and down your back, and holding you close by the back of your neck.  She’s making it easier.  Maybe even just a little bit better.  Why she is doing this for you, you don’t even know.  But it doesn’t matter right now.  It doesn’t.

So you let go.

 _She’s gone._   You hold her back, and bury your face in the fabric of her shirt and just let it all out.

 _She’s gone._   You squeeze her shoulders and breathe her in.  All you can smell is her shampoo and barely-there perfume.

 _She’s gone._   She holds you tighter.  She’s soft and strong at once.

 _She’s gone._   She keeps whispering, "Shh," into your hair.

_She’s gone._

You don’t even bother to open your eyes this time, but you feel the dampness slide down your cheek.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and wait for sleep to slide back over you.

The first time Veronica kisses you, it’s like lighting a very short fuse.

You stare at each other, and it burns fast; she turns away, but you pull her back for something more, and the results are explosive.

It could be dizzying and confusing as all hell, but her full, soft lips are flush against yours, and her hands are on your neck and around your shoulders, and it’s somehow incredibly simple.

Everything just clicks smoothly into place, and you finally _get_ it.  Veronica is not a stun gun to your brain, the way Lilly used to be -- she’s a shot of pure adrenaline through your veins.

 

She tilts her head and parts her lips; you deepen the kiss, and you _get_ it.

The miniscule amount of air between you holds the least amount of confusion it ever has, because for the first time in the entirety of your relationship with Veronica Mars, you know exactly what you want.

 

  
  _fast forward to the pool house._     


_Every time you hurt Veronica Mars, you're back to square one.  You’re too tall, too lanky._

When your brain finally starts functioning again -- because kissing Veronica makes that very difficult -- you tell her where the GHB came from, and there it is.  You feel stupid and helpless again.

She’s straddling your lap and hunched over you with her little hands on your hips and it doesn’t matter because she’s looking tiny and shy and fidgety again.

You tell her the truth.

_You’re just stupid and helpless._

 

You hate hurting her.  You only want to protect her.

She says she believes you, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re just back to that first sting of reality.  But then she’s kissing you again, and it’s just easier.  It’s so much easier not to think anymore, and maybe you’re both better off that way.

 

You turn over again.  Pink light is starting to poke through the purple clouds outside.

You let out a long breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and it comes out sounding too loud against the stifling quiet.

_Every time you hurt Veronica Mars, you’re just stupid and helpless again._  
  
You close the car door and turn toward her.  She’s about to go to pieces; you can feel it.

She leans forward suddenly and puts her face in her hands.  She’s practically sobbing, and you’re feeling just as overwhelmed.

_"What can I do?"_

You’ve already done too much, it seems.  But you couldn’t just sit in the car; Veronica attracts more trouble than she’s ever willing to admit.

You reach over to try and calm her down; to say something to let her know you had to do it, but she snaps back up so fast you almost get whiplash.

"A _gun_ , Logan?! A GUN?!"  You’ve pissed her off a ridiculous number of times in the past, but she’s never quite screamed at you like this before.

"What are you _doing_?  You’re going to get yourself _killed_ , don’t you understand that?"  Your mouth is actually hanging open in shock.  You can’t believe she’s lecturing _you_ about recklessness when she just walked into the River Stix and got slammed onto a pool table and nearly tattooed in the face.

You try and fix the situation, but the damage is done.  The wall snaps back up between the two of you, right on cue, and you’re back to feeling incredibly bitter about everything again.

She walks away from the car, and no matter how bitter you feel, you’re still desperate for her to turn back around.

Too stupid and helpless.  Too protective.

 

  
  _fast forward to alterna-prom._     


You scoot closer to her again, and she still doesn’t move away.  You know you’re way too drunk, and this is a bad idea, but you keep talking anyway.  You’re leaning in, and this is a bad, _bad_ idea.

She’s locked eyes with you, and that always means trouble.  Your fingers run lightly across her cheek, and she’s closing her eyes, and then she runs.

 

She’s always running.

And you're just too stupid and helpless.  Too drunk.

 

  
  _fast forward to the morning after._     


Realization’s on her face, and you know it’s too late.  And her eyes are shining and she walks away and you don’t want it to be the last time, but it feels like it.

She turns inside the elevator, and she’s definitely crying now.

The doors close, and it feels like your heart just sank into your stomach.

Too stupid and helpless.  Too hung over.

 

You jerk all the way awake when you feel something cold and wet on the back of your hand, which is dangling over the edge of the couch.  You turn with heavy-lidded eyes to see Backup pressing his nose against your fingers and blinking balefully up at you.  You almost feel like laughing a little, but your throat is dry and sore, and your lungs apparently don’t want to waste the oxygen, because nothing comes out.

You feel more tired than ever, even though a quick glance outside tells you you’ve been asleep for hours.  You feel like you’ve been running a marathon instead, and your head is pounding again.  That, or it just never stopped throbbing.  You can’t tell anymore.

For a brief moment, Veronica’s face flashes before you, with tears in her eyes, and doors closing between you.

You have no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

You’ve seen that look on her face too many times, and you hate that you know it’s usually your fault.  Another pang goes through you, and you shake your head to try and clear it.  You swing your legs over the edge of the couch, and bury your face in your hands, trying to rub the developing migraine out.  Everything you’re doing feels so stiff and mechanical, and your throat tightens when you remember exactly why nothing feels like it should.

You walk quietly down the hallway to find Veronica’s door slightly ajar.  Backup has wedged himself through, and now sits at the base of her bed.

She’s very still now, but through the course of the night she’s somehow tangled herself among her sheets so thoroughly it looks like she’s been sleeping as horribly as you were.  It doesn't surprise you in the slightest, but you still feel the huge ball of ache that's settled into your chest since last night sting a little more deeply.

Backup whines and nudges his nose against your leg, and you force yourself to look away.

 _He’s probably hungry.  Where the hell does she keep the dog food?  Food.  Something.  Just…_ do _something already._

You spend about twenty minutes rifling around in the kitchen looking for dog food, then the rest of the apartment, before you finally find it in a can above the refrigerator.  Then you spend another ten minutes standing in the middle of the kitchen, fidgeting and trying to think of anything else to do with yourself.

You remember how much food was sent to the house after your mother died.  Since you’re already in the kitchen, you figure you may as well cook something.  It’s better than standing around, looking just as stupid and useless as you feel.

 

  
  _fast forward fifteen more minutes._     


She comes running out of her bedroom and finds you in the kitchen, and you see it right away.

 

_He’s gone._

It’s written in the slump of her shoulders and the crease in her forehead and she bites her bottom lip and there it is.  The realization.  You see it and it hurts, but you know it doesn’t hurt you nearly as much as it hurts her.

_Too stupid._

You’re in front of her in a few steps, and she’s burying her face in your shirt, where her head always fits snugly against your neck, just under your chin.

_Too tall._

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," you’re saying, even though it doesn’t make any difference.

She’s shaking a little all over when you run your fingers through her hair, and all you can think about is how stupid it was to try and make breakfast.  It’s not like either of you would have eaten anything.

_Too helpless._

"I’m so sorry."

 

 

  
  _fast forward another hour or two._     


So, your father’s dead.

And just when you were beginning to think nothing else could possibly go to shit today.

You’re sitting in your car, about to leave Veronica’s -- now that Keith has miraculously turned up out of nowhere, you don't feel you have a place there right now -- and you get a phone call from none other than Cliff.  He breaks it to you without preamble or apology, and you’re ridiculously grateful to him for just being… Cliff.

"Someone shot him in his hotel suite," he says, and you add that to the growing list of reasons why you’ll probably never set foot inside the Neptune Grand again.

Before you even think about slipping back into the sarcastic glove that fits you so well, “Well, I guess that makes you and the cleaning staff the only people who are pissed about it,” comes flying out of your mouth.  Talk about reflexes.

"You aren’t… bothered by this at all?"  Cliff actually sounds somewhat concerned.  Apparently you won him over a bit too at one point or another, though you can’t imagine why.

"Should I be?"  There it is again.  That petulant tone.  You could do this all day.  You’ll probably have to, once the rest of Neptune finds out.

"According to _Psychology For Dummies_ , yes," he says, and you actually laugh, but it doesn’t sound quite right.  Like it got stuck halfway up your throat, and you had to work to push it the rest of the way out.

The difficulty you’re having must translate over the phone, because "Look," Cliff is saying, "If you need anything, you have my number."  You can’t imagine what he could do for you, but it’s a nice gesture.

 _A nice gesture_.  You’ll probably be getting more of those than you care for soon, too.  That, and shrink-wrapped casserole.  The thought makes you feel slightly nauseous.

"Yeah…" you say, but your voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, which makes no sense at all.  "I’m sure there’s some legal crap to deal with, what with my being an orphan now and all."

"Logan--"  You can practically feel his pity, and it makes you feel more like throwing up than ever.

"It’s fine, Cliff," you bite out sharply, before he can finish whichever platitude he’s chosen.  Not that you can blame him for wanting to say something, but you really don’t want to hear it.  "I’ve been pretty much on my own for a long time," you say, with considerably less annoyance, and it’s depressingly true.  "It’s nice and neat now; having it be all official-like."

"All right, well…"  He’s struggling with this, you know, and you really wish he just didn't care.  You’re so much more used to being neglected, and you know you'll both be better off if he’ll just leave you to your own devices.  That’s probably the only way you’ll be able to find some sense of normalcy after today.  "Like I said--"

"I have your number," you finish.

You hang up your phone, and it’s not until you turn the key in the ignition that you realize your knuckles have gone white where you’re gripping the steering wheel.

 

  
  _fast forward about an hour more._     


Another wave rolls over you, and you squint through the water, watching the white streaks pass above your head.  The set breaks, and you breach the surface.

Your whole life, you’ve been sort of in love with water.

You know everyone thinks you’re a surfer, but you only learned to surf to be a stronger swimmer.  It’s only Dick you go surfing with, anymore.  When it’s just you, you swim.  When you swim, you can dive; go all the way under, and stay there until the pressure bears down on your lungs, and you have to take another breath.

You’ve always enjoyed pushing the limits of anything; why should oxygen be any different?

You’ve been out in the ocean for at least an hour, but you can’t imagine where else to go right now.  Maybe you had planned to go to the Grand, after leaving Veronica’s apartment, but the call from Cliff reminded you why you were avoiding it.

You had sat in your car for a while, resisting several urges, many of which included breaking or throwing something, but experience told you that wouldn’t make any difference.  You looked around for a while, and saw the waves out to the west.  You had forgotten how close Veronica lived to the ocean, and the thought of it made you smile.

One of the positives about being a stereotypical surfer is always having your gear in the trunk.

The tide is rolling back out now, and the riptide has carried you further north along the beach than you realized.  After years of swimming along this coast, you know it’ll take a good ten minutes to swim against the current and back in to shore.

From where you are, Veronica and Backup are just two small specks on the sand you hadn’t expected to see.  You smile too wide when the sun glints off her hair in a way you can see even this far out, and end up swallowing a bit too much sea water.

By the time you’ve fought your way back through the surf, the sun is low and you’re casting an absurdly long shadow against the damp sand.  Veronica has gone in and come back out again, and this time she is alone.  She is sitting near the sea wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the seagulls pecking at the flecks of seaweed dotting the beach.

You pick up your towel and walk over to her.  She doesn’t look up until you’re standing next to her, setting your towel down over the edge of the wall.

"Hey," she says, and when she smiles it doesn’t look unnatural.  You feel ridiculously relieved, and smile like an idiot back down at her.  "Have a good swim?"  She looks a little more like her mischievous self.  "I was just starting to wonder whether you’d pulled a crap pre-teen novel and transformed into a badly drawn fish."

It’s the sort of joke she would have made yesterday.  It’s a lame joke, yes, but she’s winking one eye up at you to block out the deep orange light, and laughing at it feels more refreshing than the swim.

You drop down next to her, shaking water out of your hair.  She glares in mock annoyance and reaches up to rake her fingers through it, with the sole intent of making it stick up all over the place, but you’re way beyond caring.

"Your hair’s getting long," she says, but somehow you know what she's really saying is, "Let’s sit out here a little while longer."  You nod in response to either meaning, and she smiles again and turns back to look over the waves.

There are plenty of unspoken words between you, but the ones that still need to be said can wait a little while longer.

 

  
  _fast forward to the right now._     


There’s not going to be any fresh start.  You’ve put one another through so much shit in the past few years, there’ll probably never be anything "fresh" about your relationship again.

But you still have a relationship, which says a lot.  The very thought is enough to allow you to breathe in and out without feeling like exploding.  You can reach out and touch her and not be afraid that you're already falling in love with her all over again.

It’s dangerous and stupid but that’s pretty much your area of expertise.

In all honesty, you don’t really want a fresh start.  What you want is another chance, and you want it to last.  You’ve both grown in and for each other; it doesn’t have to be fresh.

Sitting next to her on the beach, you’re both leaning on each other without actually touching.  For the first time in ages you feel properly situated; solid weight on solid ground.

She is small and steady beside you, the wind whipping blonde strands all around her face, making her look absolutely wild.  She’s not really looking at any one thing, but her face is angled toward the horizon.

Another gust of ocean breeze curls a wave of gold around her neck, and she reaches across the inch of sand between you.

She laces her tiny fingers through yours without comment, and it’s a start.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried something with this fic that I had yet to see before (at the time) -- graphics interspersed with text. I used more during Logan’s dreams to represent flashes of memories (I tried to go for short bursts of imagery, but I doubt I succeeded).  Also, there are more images near the end of the dream, as you experience the most R.E.M. sleep right before fully waking. As for the icons, I wanted to try something new, mostly to help with the flow of my really odd style. I experimented a lot with formatting (and not all of it carries over to AO3 from LJ, as there were originally shifts in text color as well), but that in and of itself is a large part of my writing style. This was my first ever fic written for _Veronica Mars_. Hopefully it's still enjoyable today.
> 
> 12/06/06: Winner of _Runner-Up: Best Short Story_ , _Runner-Up: Best Angst_ , and _Best Re-write_ at the **Pirate Pride Awards**.


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